


all the world's a stage (but we're still waiting in the wings)

by i_l0ve_my_az (thebodyeclectic)



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-28
Updated: 2010-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 04:20:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebodyeclectic/pseuds/i_l0ve_my_az
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen rom-com AU. Evan decided he wanted to play hockey after all. Johnny comes to train at his skating rink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the world's a stage (but we're still waiting in the wings)

**Author's Note:**

> So fluffy it’ll give you cavities. A lot of teenage swearing. Deliberate bastardization of RL events. Complete fail at hockey knowledge, so I’m extremely sorry to the hockey fans who’re reading this and will probably be offended. This is probably offensive to people with good taste too. Wikipedia is my friend.

Evan considers himself lucky. Well, not in the winning the million-dollar-lottery, I-was-late-for-my-flight-which-just-crashed-in-the-tarmac sense of the word. That’s just pure dumb luck and while a lot of people might think that the dumb part applied to him, he liked to think it was the lucky part that had guided his life for the most part.

See, it all started when Nana Ana decided she wanted to get married and have babies instead of joining the Ice Capades. Years and a dozen grandchildren later, she had what Evan liked to think of as a near-end-of-life crisis. She started reminiscing over what-might-have-beens and getting a sad faraway look in her eyes every time he and Chrissie visited. He didn’t get it then and he still doesn’t now, but apparently Nana saw something in them that made her go out and buy them their first pair of ice skates.

Evan’s mama had yelled the house down when they opened up those Christmas presents. Obviously Nana was getting a bit touched in the head since no one in their right mind would even think of giving Evan, who had stitches on his temple from when he’d slid down the banister and landed headfirst on their marble foyer and perpetually bruised knees, and Chrissie, the reigning queen of klutz in her grade who sported a black eye from when she’d run into the mailbox on her way home from school, shoes with sharp blades attached to them.

Nana had prevailed though, so Evan and Chrissie started learning how to skate that very winter.

It quickly became apparent that Evan was much better at the whole skating thing than Chrissie, a fact which led to some epic fights between them and a lot of name-calling. Chrissie gave up on skating the following summer, loudly announcing that if Evan wanted to be a princess ballerina on an ice cube, then fine, he could go flutter around all fine by himself. Chrissie threw herself into volleyball soon after, leaving Evan to brood over her threats of sparkly princessing on ice.

At nine years old, Evan was already taller than all of the kids in his grade. This would have been fine, if he weren’t as thin as a beanpole. Charlie Sumners started had calling him Olive Oyl just before class let out for the summer and whatever Charlie Sumners did, the other kids were sure to follow. He didn’t want to be Olive Oyl **and** a princess!

He had sat in the stands after his skating lesson and thought this over. Sure, he liked skating, but he liked having friends even more. No one was going to want to be friends with Princess Olive Oyl, so he decided he was going to quit skating like Chrissie. She found something else she was good at, he could too.

Evan sighed a great big heaving sigh, checked his Power Rangers watch because, wow, was mama sure late picking him up when the metal seats started shaking. He started looking around for an adult because that was what you did when an earthquake hit and that’s when he saw them.

Sixteen of the biggest guys he’d ever seen in white jerseys and helmets carrying big sticks stampeding onto the ice.

They started pushing and calling each other bad names and when their coach blew his whistle, wow. They started skating really fast and hitting each other with their elbows and knees and sticks. Evan was transfixed.

He’d decided. He was going to be a hockey player.

Looking back, it might not have been the right time to announce his intentions of Stanley Cup glory to his mama right after she’d picked him up. She’d been late because she had to rush Chrissie to the hospital after she’d broken her nose trying to reach for the ball during volleyball practice.

She’d nearly had a coronary – no one could ever accuse Evan of being attuned to the nuances of human emotion – but Evan had worn her down eventually.

*

Evan comes home to the smell of cannelloni cooking in the kitchen, his mother calling out hello and telling him to wash up for dinner, and Chrissie cornering him at the top of the stairs.

“Word on the street is that some Junior World Champ’s training at the Ice Locker,” she says casually, leaning on the banister and effectively blocking his way.

Evan makes a face at her. “What street? You watch way too much TV.” He tries to edge past her but she’s almost as tall as he is and has just as fast reflexes.

He dodges, she blocks. He’s impressed; she could’ve been a decent hockey player if she’d wanted to be.

“Says the guy who owns all of Jay-Z’s CDs,” she snarks back. “Sarah says all the figure skaters are shitting themselves.”

He feints, she takes the bait and he manages to make his way into the hallway.

“God, grasshopper, you’re no fun,” she whines, pulling at his backpack.

“God, Chris,” he says, imitating her tone. “What do you want me to say?”

She lets go of his backpack, looks him over and raises her eyebrow. “Whatever,” she says, before stalking into her room and slamming her door shut.

“Evan? Christina?” his mom calls from downstairs.

Evan sighs. His life is so hard. “It’s nothing, mom. We’re just horsing around.”

His mother appears at the bottom of the stairs and looks up at him with sad eyes. He stares blankly back at her. Seriously, are they still expecting him and Chrissie to get along like those kids in his dad’s golf magazines, all smiling and wearing matching polo shirts? It’s been sixteen years since his mom first came home with Chrissie and Evan started bawling like her mere presence was an affront to his existence when his mom put her in the crib next to him.

“Alright, then. Your father will be home soon so we’ll be having dinner in a few minutes.”

“Okay, mom. I’ll just go put my things away.”

Her gaze travels over him then lingers a long moment over his face before breaking contact. “You do that, honey.”

Evan pulls a half-hearted smile. She smiles tiredly back at him. There’s a quiet moment before Marilyn Manson comes blasting out of Chrissie’s room. Evan’s mom’s face falls, pulling the guilt-inducing look of why-can’t-we-all-just-get-along-I-love-all-my-babies-equally-I-wish-you-would-try-harder-you-are-older that she used to pull with Laura before she left for college.

That look’s very effective. He hates that look like a lot. He stifles the face he wants to make and sighs deeply, nodding his defeat. “I’ll talk to her later, ma,” he mouths over the loud, emo, wrist-cutting music.

He goes to his room, tosses his backpack onto his desk, kicks his duffel next to his hamper and sets his stick next to his headboard. He flings himself face first onto his bed and tries to purge the Italian mother-induced guilt from his system.

*

Bauer’s not exactly the best friend a guy could have. People keep telling Evan that he can do better than Bauer, that Bauer’s a bad influence on him, Bauer clearly doesn’t have a future, Bauer’s just going to pull him down, blah, blah, blah...

Evan thinks these people are crazy. It’s not as if he’s married to Bauer or thinking about marrying him. First of all, gross – Bauer smells like feet most days, and like feet with socks on on good days, also his neck is about as wide as Evan’s entire thigh and he chews with his mouth open, which leads to – b.) Evan obviously can do better, he agrees and 3.) just the thought of touching Bauer in any way that is not related to hockey makes him want to kill himself with a spoon. So this is why Bauer is an acceptable best friend and forever banned from being his life partner, even in concept.

They’re lifting weights in Evan’s basement; Bauer spotting, Evan grunting with effort at bench-pressing a hundred and fifty pounds. Bauer’s going on about something that Evan’s not really paying attention to. Evan automatically tunes out whatever stupid shit Bauer feels like saying at any given time; it’s probably why they’re still friends after all this time.

Bauer notices him struggling through his last set, so he tries to motivate Evan in his own special way. “Hey, pussy, I can bench press twice what you’re doing and not even break a sweat. What, you gonna turn into a twirl girl on me, Lysacek? Is that it?”

Evan would tell Bauer to go fuck himself if his teeth weren’t welded together to help against the strain of lifting the bar.

“Come on, bitch. Even Sonja’s faggot partner can do better than this. You’re pathetic, man, letting some ice princess outlift you? One more, c’mon, that’s it.”

Bauer takes the bar away from him and Evan collapses on the bench, panting and loose-limbed. Bauer’s still on his spiel about Sonja’s skate partner and how gay he is. Evan thinks it’s funny, considering all the ass-slapping, nipple-grabbing and sex noises that occur when they’re conditioning for hockey. He also finds Bauer’s poorly hidden jealousy hilarious.

“Whatever, dude,” Evan snorts, reaching for his towel. “Come back and talk to me when you’re done being scared shitless of the Galinazi.” Evan gets up off the bench, away from the trajectory of Bauer’s fist and retaliates with a towel snap to the ass.

Bauer’s only angry since it’s the truth. The Ice Locker’s resident figure skating coach is this indomitable Russian doyenne with a displeased frown tattooed on her face. Her word is law in all matters relevant to the Ice Locker.

“Oh, it’s fucking on, scarecrow,” Bauer says, pounding his chest with both fists. His nostrils flare right before he charges Evan and they fall to the floor, railing on each other.

Bauer manages to pin him to the floor, pulling one of Evan’s arms behind his back and pushing his face into the floor while crowing his victory. “Yeah, it’s like that, bitch!”

Evan uses what leverage his often mocked limbs affords him and twists his way out of the hold, slamming his elbow into Bauer’s side. Bauer lets out an “oof!” of pain, rolling to the side and Evan scrambles to his feet. “No, it’s like **that** , bro.”

Bauer grunts. “Fuck your crazy skinny ass, motherfucker.”

Evan snorts. “You wish, Bauer.” Evan holds out his hand and pulls Bauer to his feet. “You wanna go for a run before practice starts?”

“Dude, let’s go now. Wanna see Sonja in that little skirt thing of hers,” Bauer leers.

Evan tries not to roll his eyes. “Like you’re gonna be able to get within ten feet of her without Galina tearing your balls off.”

“Fuck you dude,” Bauer replies cleverly, pulling a sweatshirt from his bag and pulling it on. “No way in hell am I scared of that bitch.”

Evan gives up trying not to roll his eyes at Bauer. “Yeah, whatever, dude. We’ll see.”

*

The Galinazi was yelling up a storm in Russian out in the rink. Well, Evan thinks it’s Russian since her mouth’s moving way too fast for her to be shouting English at the kid on the ice.

Bauer had been pissed when he realized that it wasn’t Sonja and her pairs partner Galina was coaching. He’s still really careful about staying out of Galina’s line of sight, the lying pussy.

“Fucking waste of time. Thanks a lot, Bauer,” Evan scoffs.

“This is such bullshit, man. Sonja’s supposed to be here! Who’s that faggot out on the ice, anyway? Kick his ass, wasting my time.”

Evan looks back to the ice, sees the kid jump and spin in the air before landing on one foot. Huh, doesn’t look to hard, he thinks, but then he always thinks that. Kinda like popping tricks on rollerblades, which he and Chrissie used to do before he chipped a tooth and their mom decided to confiscate their skates. He wonders if it’s any different doing those tricks on the ice. He’s curious because anything that looks like it’s pushing the human body to its limits is attractive to him but doesn’t think it’d be worth the shit the guys on the team would give him to try it out himself. Besides, he’d totally need different skates pull that shit off.

He’d also probably break his ankle, if not his neck, trying and it isn’t worth the added aggravation. His coaches are already up in his face about gaining more weight as it is.

Bauer suddenly slaps him on the arm. “Oh, sweet!”

Evan shoves him in retaliation. “What?”

“She’s here! Look!”

Sonja’s standing with her arms crossed over her chest at the side of the rink next to Mr. Petrenko, the Galinazi’s son-in-law and assistant coach. Santos, her partner, is leaning on the boards, eyes glued to the guy on the ice.

“Come on, man!” Bauer drags him through the athletes’ entrance, past the lockers and into the arena proper, asking Evan’s opinion about his chances if he asks Sonja to the Homecoming Dance.

Evan thinks he doesn’t have a shot in hell, for obvious reasons, the first being Sonja obviously can’t stand him and the second being Sonja’s thinks she’s classier than they are. Sure, she hasn’t really come out and said it in so many words, but she goes to that fancy private school, owns a private plane and has a real life chauffer drop her off and pick her up from practice. Evan’ll admit that stranger things have happened, but it isn’t going to be Sonja saying yes to Bauer.

He’s a good friend, though, so he tells Bauer to go for it. Hell, there are no witnesses around to see Bauer getting shot down and spread it around school, so they’re in the clear.

Bauer lets go of Evan once they get close, and with his bag slung over his shoulder and his stick in hand, pretends like he just happened to casually walk by and wasn’t a total spazz who was more or less stalking Sonja.

Evan plants himself next to Santos and settles in to watch his best friend seriously bomb with a major babe.

Out on the ice, Galina’s yelling a mix of Russian and English – mostly Russian. The only words Evan can make out are strong, leg and Johnny. On his left, Santos lets out a dreamy sigh. Santos goes to his school and is a year younger than him and Bauer. He’s one of those kids that get picked on by the sports team of the season. Yeah, the kid might be flaming but Evan’s got no beef with him.

“Hey.”

Santos almost jumps out of his skin. “Christ!” he hisses, shooting a tentative look at Galina, like this was a library and she was some crazy-ass librarian. “I didn’t see you there, Lysacek.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Evan says, not meaning it. “So, who’s that out there?” He points at the kid who’s now doing some mad fast spins on the toes of his skates. Evan wonders how the kid hasn’t puked out his kidneys yet and is momentarily taken back to that summer when he was eight and his teacher tried to show him how to do spins without getting dizzy, only he was too busy trying to shove ice down Chrissie’s shirt to pay attention.

“That,” Santos says, pausing dramatically, which Evan thinks doesn’t help his rep as the gayest kid to ever gay the halls of Wayne Hills High, “is Johnny Weir.”

“Uh, okay,” Evan nods, like this is supposed to mean something to him.

Santos makes a disgusted little noise. “Seriously?”

Some part of him that thinks about these things thinks that the gays wouldn’t get such a bad rap if they weren’t so melodramatic and out there. But what does he know? Maybe there’s a rule that says they all have to act like that or something.

“Hello! He’s like only the best junior skater around. He’s – ”

Whatever else he is, Evan doesn’t get to find out because Bauer falls into him. He almost takes Santos down with them but kid manages to jump clear.

“Ugh, get away from me!”

Evan looks up and sees Sonja, red-faced with her fists on her hips, glaring down at Bauer. Total nuclear meltdown. Evan would be laughing his ass off if Bauer’s knee wasn’t digging uncomfortably close to his crotch.

He pushes Bauer off of him but doesn’t get up. Sonja’s really scary-looking when she’s angry; that’s one new thing he’s learned today. Bauer isn’t as smart as him, though, because he pushes to his feet and gets all up in Sonja’s face.

“What the hell, lady? What’s wrong with you!”

Sonja curses him out in what can only be Russian and raises a hand to slap him. Bauer’s rescued from sporting scars from her vicious-looking nails when Mr. Petrenko intervenes, taking Sonja by the hand and saying something firmly to her in Russian.

She responds heatedly and starts pointing and gesticulating wildly in Bauer’s general direction. Evan thinks this is pure comedy gold. He looks up to see if Santos shares his amusement but Santos just shrugs at him, shaking his head like he’s above this teen drama bullshit.

Then something catches Santos’s eye and he suddenly pales and freezes.

“What is going on here?”

Oh, shit. The Galina. Evan scrambles to his feet and moves as far away from Bauer as he can. Best friend or no, there’s loyalty and then there’s fucking suicide. Santos follows Evan’s lead and tries to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. Smart kid.

Galina moves to Sonja’s side, shooting off questions while glaring at Bauer. The skater, Weir, hovers behind her. Sonja replies in rapid-fire Russian, shooting daggers at Bauer, peppering her speech with the occasional scathing remark of “Pig!” in his direction. Galina’s eyebrows move progressively close together until they’re a single line on her forehead.

When Sonja’s done recounting the tale of the insult to her maidenly virtue or however she made Bauer’s skeevy flirting sound, Galina rounds on him and starts chewing him out.

Evan and Santos trade looks –the kind prisoners of war share when the enemy passes them over for some other poor schmuck who looks easier to torture – glad that they aren’t part of this ridiculous farce and hoping their luck holds out.

The Weir kid is trying to comfort Sonja, who just isn’t having it. Weir catches Mr. Petrenko’s eye and tilts his head meaningfully at Galina.

Galina’s just about ready to rip Bauer’s head off and stuff it up his ass and Bauer looks like he’s ready to shit himself. He’s saved from death by decapitation due to angry Russian matron when Mr. Petrenko finally steps in and talks his mother-in-law out of first degree murder.

She lets him talk her down and storms out of the arena, but not before throwing Bauer one last evil eye and a yelling out a parting, “ _Yeban'ko maloletnee!_ ”

Bauer visibly deflates and just when Evan’s opened his mouth to start asking him where his balls went, Sonja butts in.

“Don’t you come near me again or you’ll be sorry, you stupid pig!”

And whoa, that’s some serious shit right there since it’s an open secret that Sonja’s dad is like some sort of Russian mob price or something like that. Evan lets out a low whistle, not envying Bauer at all.

She stalks off while Santos and Weir exchange wide-eyed, loaded glances. Santos opens his mouth to say something, maybe apologize, maybe to snark, Evan will never know what because it’s been decided that today is the day for hysterical Russian women to make dramatic gestures.

“Micah! Johnny!” Sonja’s glaring, face red as a tomato. “ _Davaj!_ ” She slams the doors to the locker area open and makes her dramatic exit, assured that everyone’s eyes are on her.

Evan makes sure she’s out of sight before starting a dramatic slow clap. “Dude, that was like out of an episode of Dawson’s Creek or something.”

Bauer scowls, bending down to pick up his fallen stick. “What a crazy bitch.”

“Please,” Santos snorts. “You got your ass handed to you.” He shoulders Evan out of the way, takes Weir by the wrist and drags him to the exit. “Next time, find someone a bit more receptive to stupidity.”

Evan bursts out laughing after the doors swing shut. Bauer half-heartedly shoves him. “Shut up, man.”

*

Evan will be the first to admit that he isn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the IKEA store but he isn’t completely stupid either. He’s on the honor roll, for one, and he’s got all those awards because of his good grades, for another. Sure, he may be slow on the uptake sometimes, and the witty retort isn’t exactly his thing, but he isn’t dumb. Some people might argue that having an excellent memory is an unfair advantage, isn’t an indicator of academic excellence – Evan just thinks those are the jealous kids who have to work twice as hard for something that comes easily to him.

The thing about Evan is that he _does_ know how lucky he is. He knows that some kids won’t ever graduate with honors or ever be captain of their sports team or have families that love and support them, let alone _all_ of those things.

So, yeah, Evan knows how great he’s got it and he counts his blessings every single day.

He’s got no worries apart from wondering whether his team will make it to Nationals and impressing the college and university scouts.

Evan’s got his life more or less laid planned out. He knows what’s going to happen next, even if he isn’t exactly sure of the particulars. Evan doesn’t exactly hate surprises but he doesn’t like them all that much either. Matter of fact, he’d rather they weren’t there at all. It would seem incongruous, what with him being an athlete and all and the outcomes of games being unpredictable, but it’s not. Evan knows himself too well, knows when he can deliver and when he should just stay home with his head buried under the pillow (the latter being an extremely rare case because Evan is rarely not _on_ ).

The world is strange and unknown and unreliable. If Evan’s thankful for one thing in this world, it’s his intrinsic knowledge of himself, his self-assurance, the certainty that he gets things done. Evan knows that people fail because they don’t know their own limitations and strengths. Evan’s a winner because he’s so attuned to his mind and body.

See, what people don’t get about Evan is that he’s all about self-control.

You’re only as strong as your weakest link, and thankfully, Evan knows all of his.

*

The next time Evan sees Weir is a few days after the Eruption of Mt. Sonja, after four hours of hockey practice. Evan doesn’t know how Coach Grisham managed to wrangle time away from the ice skaters; he only hopes coach doesn’t manage it again anytime soon. Three hours into practice and Evan could hardly feel his knees from all the blocks he’s had to make. He’s an enormous walking bruise right now.

At least he doesn’t look as bad as the rest of the team – coach had decided to make up a new rule where every missed shot or save meant ten suicides from one end of the rink to the other – they looked like they’d been chewed up and shit out and while Evan might not like how wrung out he feels at the end of the session, he gets why the coach wants to bleed them dry.

It’ll be the last year for most of the players on the team and coach wants to make a good showing at the playoffs. Winning isn’t exactly necessary when it comes to catching a scout’s eye but it helps. Evan’s not as worried as some of the guys since he’s already had some division III and smaller division I schools sniffing around, all but giving him a scholarship. Winning and playing his best is still just as important, though; he’s still holding out for Michigan State or Boston U and they keep their cards close their chests, so Evan doesn’t really know where he stands with them.

Everyone’s bruised, tired, sweaty and irritable when coach dismisses them with one last, “Get your shit together, you fucking girls!”

Evan’s last to leave the ice as a rule, since he’s captain, so he sees coach skate up to the Galina and Mr. Petrenko who’re sitting on the stands. He spares a moment to wonder if they even understand one another, what with coach’s slurring Texan drawl and the Russians’ thick accents, when he runs into Kowalski’s back.

All he can think is, ‘Christ, what now?’ and catches Kowalski glowering at that world champion kid, Weir. Kowalski goes out of his way to shoulder the kid so he hits the plexiglass board. “Outta the way, fag,” he sneers.

Evan’s too exhausted to deal with this shit. “Kowalski, would you just hit the showers?”

“With this princess in the building? Are you fucking kidding me, cap?” Kowalski waves a huge paw in Weir’s general direction. “Fuck, I bet he’s getting off just thinking about it.”

Evan finally takes a good look at Weir and he’s not surprised that Kowalski decided to take his poor performance on the ice out on the kid. Weir’s wearing black tights, a purple leotard, some sort of pink tube top around his torso, dark blue leg warmers with little weird-ass bears on them and a sweatband that’s more of a headband that’s got LV monogrammed all over it. He’s also carrying what looks like a huge ass purse-thing and a red sweatshirt with RUSSIA in white on the back.

The kid’s foreign; Evan doesn’t see any reason why Kowalski’s gotta act all ignorant and make Americans look bad. “Lay off, Kowalski. Alright?”

Kowalski turns that sneer on him. “What? You a faggot too, Lysacek? Is that it? You defending your boyfriend?”

Evan bristles. “Why don’t you quit while you’re ahead, before I shut your damn fool mouth for you, Kowalski?” He moves in close and uses the three inches he has on the guy to stare him down.

“Hey, Evan, where the fuck did you put my goddamn IcyHot?” Bauer walks out of the locker area in his underwear, Lim and Johnson trailing after him.

“Oh, man, Kowalski,” Lim groans. “Save it for the game.”

“Yeah, Kowalski, you better get in there before the hot water runs out and you start bitching again,” Bauer says with a surprising amount of tact. Evan sometimes forgets that Bauer’s not really as stupid as he’d like everyone to think he is.

For a moment, it looks like it’s going to get ugly but Kowalski just bares his teeth at the Weir kid and bangs his way to the showers.

“Fucking drama queen,” Johnson mutters and that just makes Evan crack up. Kowalski is by far the biggest princess on the fucking team and if he weren’t such a good defenseman and an even better fighter, coach and the team would’ve kicked him off a long time ago.

“Dude, seriously, where’s my IcyHot?” Bauer’s persistent like an outbreak of crabs.

Evan manages to choke down the rest of what might be stress-triggered hysteria masquerading as laughter to reply. “What am I, your fucking wife? How’m I supposed to know?”

“You used it last time. I remember.”

“No, I didn’t. You’re getting senile in your old age, grandma.”

“You get in here and help us look for it, bitch,” Bauer says over his back as he pushes back into the locker room. Lim and Johnson follow with Lim lecturing at Johnson about the rampant use of feminine pejoratives in modern-day male-dominated sports arena being a sign of deep-seated insecurities stemming from latent homosexual urges or parental neglect.

Evan thinks Lim talks a lot of bullshit and watches too much Oprah.

He spares a glance at Weir – busy smoothing out his clothes and muttering something that sounds like _dalbaiyob_ while glaring at the swinging doors to the lockers – and steps into the humid atmosphere of the locker room, keeping an eye out for Bauer’s IcyHot.

*

Evan’s lying with his back flat on the bleachers, listening to The Format and reading The Old Man and the Sea for his Lit class while waiting for Weir and the Galina to finish their session.

He wavers between pretending to identify with Santiago or the fish before deciding on the fish. His new age, Birkenstock-wearing, granola-eating, hippie teacher would probably eat that up as the greatest thing since tofu. Evan’s mentally outlining his speech and checking his watch. He’s got a minute left. He turns to stare out at the ice and is surprised to find it empty.

His new work schedule only started a week ago, and the two times he’d waited for the Galina and Weir, he’d had to threaten to call Mr. Fogel on them to get them to stop. He sits up and pulls off his headphones. He looks around the rink and spots Weir sitting two rows down from him. He watches the kid fuss with his skates, then his bag.

“Hey,” Evan calls out, stepping over the bleachers and bounding up to Weir in three huge loping strides. The kid looks up and Evan’s momentarily taken aback at how huge his eyes are.

The kid looks him up and down while unscrewing a huge plastic bottle of water. He takes a few sips but keeps his eyes trained on Evan.

It makes him uncomfortable. He’s used to being the tall, gangly kid and he’s always felt awkward about his body when he isn’t on the ice; he doesn’t know if he should hunch or stand tall, if he should stuff his hands in his pockets or let them hang at his sides. He’s never felt more aware of how much of a beanpole he is than this very moment.

“Um,” he starts, and he doesn’t know what impulse made him come down and talk to this kid but he’s going to roll with it since he can’t walk away now. “Sorry about that thing the other day. My teammate’s kind of a bonehead.”

Weir lifts an eyebrow, which doesn’t seem promising, but he tilts his head, indicating that Evan should continue.

“I mean, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about us. We aren’t all dumb hicks who like starting fights and like poking fun at people, you know?” Evan shuffles his feet. “Just, one bad experience shouldn’t, uh, sour you on the rest of us, right?”

Evan looks up to see Weir chewing on his bottom lip. Evan pastes on what his mom calls his winning smile.

The kid stuffs the water bottle into his purse-thing and glides gracefully to his feet. Evan reflexively takes a step back. Personal space must not be a big thing in Russia.

“And by ‘the rest of us’, you mean...”

“Uh, Americans,” Evan frowns. “We aren’t all trigger-happy xenophobes. Kowalski’s a douche. So, you know, I hope what he doesn’t make you think that all Americans are intolerant of different cultures and stuff.”

Weir’s lips start pulling at the corners. A few moments pass and then he starts laughing with one hand pressed to his mouth.

Evan’s brow furrows. Wow, try to do something nice and get laughed at. That’s what you get for trying to be a nice guy, Lysacek.

Weir’s stopped laughing, though his lips are twitching like he can’t control his mirth. He fiddles with the strap of his bag and glances up at Evan through his thick eyelashes. “What makes you think I’m not American?”

Evan freezes. Opens his mouth, stops, closes it. “What?”

Weir’s gone back to laughing at him.

“But you, I mean, with the Galina – you speak to her in Russian! And you wear that Russian sweatshirt! And the rest of your clothes...I just assumed – God, would you stop laughing?”

“Oh my God, seriously?” Weir’s thin shoulders are shaking with his suppressed laughter. Evan crosses his arms over his chest and tries to loom menacingly. He fails.

“ I speak Russian with Galina because she’s my coach and it’s her native tongue. It’s the polite thing to do. The sweatshirt? It was a gift. I liked it, so obviously I’m going to wear it. And my clothes? I don’t know whether to be offended or be embarrassed for you.” Evan’s face turns stony; Weir’s undeterred by it and rests a condescending hand on his forearm. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that I may just be gay?”

Evan pulls away. “Hey, I was just trying to be nice. I didn’t come here for you to insult me.”

Weir tilts his and it makes him look like a really weird (ha!) bird that Evan’s having a hard time paying attention to what he’s saying. “And your assumption that I must be foreign because I’m not dressed in Ralph Lauren jeans, a Gap hoodie and horrendous neon Nikes – that’s not supposed to be insulting?”

Evan looks down at himself – there’s nothing wrong with the way he’s dressed, he doesn’t know what this kid is on about.

Weir pulls out these huge sunglasses from his purse (okay, now that he’s not being chained down by PC-ness, Evan has to call it a purse. It looks like one of his mom’s, seriously.) and puts them on. It makes him look like a bug. “The precepts of American masculinity are so archaic and patently chauvinistic; I don’t blame you for ascribing to such notions since you’re mired down with the expectations of Middle America. It’s alright, I understand.”

Evan blinks. _What the fuck?_

“Well,” the kid chirps, picking up the gym bag Evan hadn’t noticed before (and calling it a gym bag is sort of a stretch since it’s plastered with the same monogram that’s all over the kid’s headband) and giving him a painfully condescendingly sympathetic look. “Gotta go. Thanks for the apology. Really.”

He leaves Evan gaping.

*

Evan’s the first one at the rink and since his last period was Study Hall, he decided to skip so he could warm up early. He’s even beaten the coach since he doesn’t see his red Goat in the parking area.

He pulls out his equipment bag from the back of his Cherokee and head for the Ice Locker building. He waves to Camille the hottie from the snack bar and checks the ice through the plexiglass separating the ice from the entrance. There are about three people on the ice – all figure skaters – and a few more on the sidelines.

Evan changes into his gear, stows his bag in his locker and heads to the ice. He leaves his helmet and skateguards off to one side of the gallery before stepping out onto the ice. He skates around the rink for a few minutes, stick in hand, careful to avoid the other skaters. He notices Weir the same instant Weir sees him. The kid raises an amused eyebrow before turning away.

Evan shrugs it off and starts warming up then segueing into a few drills. He starts doing suicides because he’s a sucker for punishment but also because he likes speed. He’s breathing heavily by the end of it. It barely occurs to him when the other two figure skaters leave.

He’s practicing his footwork now, skating short distances in bursts and dropping to his knees and getting up just as quickly. He starts working on some of his fancier moves, feinting left and right, stopping and starting and generally acting like he’s got an opponent trying to score a goal against him.

He stops when his left calf starts acting up. He’s panting like a dog in the middle of summer and decides to skate a few more laps to work out the kinks in his knees. He’s in the middle of his third lap when Weir skates up next him.

“Nice moves.”

Evan spares him a glance and decides to take that as a compliment. “Thanks.”

Weir makes a soft humming noise. “Fast on your feet, too.”

“I’ve gotta be,” Evan grunts, “to be a good goalie.”

Same strange sound of acknowledgment. “Those are the guys that guard the nets, right?”

“Yeah.”

Weir folds his arms across his chest and leans back on his skates. “You’re here early. School holiday?”

“Skipped last period.” Evan pauses and realizes something. “What about you? Home-schooled?”

Weir does a neat spin and starts skating backwards like it’s no big thing. His eyes are still trained on Evan. “Just how old do you think I am?”

“Uh,” Evan looks him up and down. He’s about half a foot shorter than Evan himself and tiny in the way all figure skaters are tiny. “Sixteen? Seventeen?”

For a brief moment, Evan wonders if Weir’s going to hit the boards since they’re nearing the end of the rink but the kid deftly switches directions. “Really?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“That’s nice of you.” Weir switches so that they’re skating side by side again. “I graduated last June.”

Evan’s jaw drops. This kid’s older than him? Seriously?

Weir smiles at him sweetly and skates away.

Evan just hopes this isn’t going to become a habit with them.

*  
Evan switches weekend shifts with a psych student going to the local college. He doesn’t mind working on Sundays, although he catches grief about missing mass from his mom. She’s always going on about him quitting since he doesn’t really need a job but Evan’s adamant. He needs to beef up his extracurriculars since he decided to stop running for student body to exclusively focus on hockey.

He usually just hangs out with Camille and does his homework. He’s known her since he was eight. She likes flirting with him and he likes the attention. She’s probably the hottest girl in the city and is saving up for law school, so to say that his ego’s being stroked is like saying the Stanley Cup’s just some gold-plated lawn ornament.

Evan’s doodling plays on the edges of his Integral Calc worksheet while Camille attends to the flock of preteen figure skaters clamoring for juice and salad. A few of the girls start staring at him and not-so-discreetly whispering at each other. He’d be flattered if it didn’t creep him out so much.

He’s idly wondering if Johnson’s good enough to pull off a wraparound or if he’ll have to sit out in favor of Bauer. Evan’s making a mental note to drill them on that later in the week when he hears someone clearing their throat next to him.

He looks up and then down to see little Angie Trotter staring at him with her hands on her hips. She’s tapping her foot, calling attention to both her impatience and Barbie sneaker. Her twin brother, Andrew, is standing next to her, sipping noisily at a cup of juice.

“What can I do for you, Angie?”

She pulls a face at him. “Erika Saunders says you’re hot like burning. I think she’s making things up.”

Evan blinks. “What?”

Angie sighs at his _obviously really stupid answer_. “So I told her I’d come here and check to see!” The duh goes unspoken but is strongly implied.

Evan stares at her for a long moment before shifting his gaze to Andrew. Andrew just shrugs at him and makes a face that clearly says: _girls are crazy, how’m I supposed to know?_ Evan is deeply sympathetic. He has two crazy sisters to Andrew’s one. He wants to tell the kid that no, it doesn’t get easier with time; it gets more complicated, watch out for the hormonal mood-swings, buddy.

“So can I?”

Evan shifts his attention back to Angie. “Can you what?”

Angie rolls her eyes for a good long time. Evan’s worried they’re going to get stuck that way. “Feel your forehead!”

Evan decides to err on the side of diplomacy. “Sure,” he says, ducking down so she’s at eye-level. “Be my guest.”

She immediately smacks his forehead with her hand. He winces, not because it hurt, which it didn’t but it did sting a bit, but because her hand’s sticky. He doesn’t want to think about why her hand’s sticky. He’d been her age, once, and he wouldn’t want his seven year old self touching his face with his unwashed hands either.

She frowns. She’s a cute kid. Loud and obnoxious, sure, but cute, so he puts up with more shit from her than he would from any other person who isn’t his coach or Chrissie. She smacks her brother on the forehead too. It would seem like she’s comparing their temperatures. Then she smacks herself on the forehead. Evan thinks it evens out in the end.

“You’re not hot,” she whines. “Erika’s stupid. Or lying. Or she’s a stupid liar.”

Evan laughs.

“This looks nice.”

Evan looks up and immediately pulls away from Angie. Weir’s just plopped down his tray on Evan’s table and is smiling. He pulls out the chair across from Evan and takes a seat, fussing with his red RUSSIA sweatshirt and arm warmers. Evan sneaks a quick peek at the Trotter twins and sees them staring up at Weir with hearts in their eyes.

Weir smiles down at both of them. “So,” he starts, leaning close to them. “What are we doing?”

Evan sees Andrew open his mouth, and the kid’s about as tactful as his sister, so he cuts him off. “Nothing. We were just messing around.”

Weir spares him a quick glance. He’s clearly amused. “Really?”

“Nuh uh!” Andrew pipes up, shaking his head vigorously. “We was checking to see if Evan was hot like burning ‘cos Erika said he was but we didn’t think she was telling the truth!”

“Really?” Weir’s biting his lower lip to stop himself from smiling.

Evan inwardly groans. Seriously, how is this his life?

Andre nods, wide-eyed. Angie, uncomfortable with the lack of attention, plasters herself to Andrew’s side thereby drawing Weir’s attention. “Really! And he wasn’t! Evan’s not hot at all!”

This time, Evan does groan out loud. “Oh, God.” He resists the all-encompassing urge to repeatedly bang his head on the table.

Weir gives him a sideways look from under his lashes. “Are you sure? Because I think you might be mistaken.”

Evan feels his face turn bright red. Fuck. Is he being hit on? Is he being hit on by a _dude_? Is it one of those cultural things he doesn’t get? Oh, right, Weir’s American. Is it a gay thing? Do they think this is what passes for casual conversation? Wait, should he beat the shit out of the guy?

Angie stomps her foot. “I checked! He didn’t feel different from me and Andrew!”

Weir nods at her, looking contemplative and serious. “Okay. _I_ might be the one in the wrong.”

Angie smiles wide, showing off her missing front teeth, transforming into a cute little girl now that she’s been validated.

“Can I have a hug?”

Weir turns to Andrew and pretends to think over his request. “Alright,” he says, holding out his arms. “Just don’t tell the others or else they’ll get jealous.”

Andrew launches himself at Weir. Evan wonders how Camille’s going to take this seeing as she’d been Andrew’s crush since the summer.

“Me! Me! I want a hug too!” Angie’s holding out her arms and glaring imperiously at Weir.

Weir laughs and pulls her close. “Same goes for you too, princess.”

And Evan can see that Weir sure knows how to handle kids; he can practically see Angie putting up Weir’s posters all over her bedroom.

Angie manages to breathe out, “Wow, you smell real good!” when they finally break apart.

Weir taps her on the nose. “And you’d better get back to practice before your coach has my butt.” He looks down at Andrew who’s clinging to his other arm. “Same goes for you too, kiddo.”

The Trotters walk away with a lot of frantic waving and backward glances. Weir smiles and waves back.

Evan starts to fidget. “Uh, so...”

Weir picks up the little cup of dressing on this tray and pours half of it on his salad. “So, I never actually got your name.”

Well, that wasn’t what Evan was expecting.

“Oh, yeah. Uh, hi,” he holds out his hand. “I’m Evan.” They shake and Evan can’t help but feel clumsy and huge when he sees how normal-sized and delicate Weir’s hand looks next to his.

“I’m Johnny,” Weir smiles.

“Yeah, I know.” And there’s that eyebrow of amusement again. “I mean,” Evan stutters. “Like everyone’s talking about you, or well, I know people who say that everyone’s talking about you.”

Johnny laughs.

“That didn’t come out right.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“It’s a small place,” Evan clarifies, hoping he isn’t digging himself an even deeper hole. “So, you know, when a junior world champion moves here it’s like a big thing.”

Johnny’s face suddenly closes off. His eyes are fixed on his salad, which he’s picking at with his fork. “I’d rather not talk about that.”

“Um,” Evan says, not sure what he said wrong. He doesn’t know if he’s overstepped any boundaries or breached etiquette since he’s never been any good at those things though he’s positive he didn’t say anything offensive. Maybe mentioning past victories is taboo in figure skating? “Sure. Sorry.”

“No, no,” Johnny smiles at him. It isn’t the same as his previous smiles. Evan wants to know when he started sounding so gay in his own head. “It’s my bad. Let’s wipe the slate clean.” He makes a wax-on-wax-off gesture. “Hi, I’m Johnny and I want to know which colorblind monkey designed your costumes.”

“Costumes?” Evan manages to get out.

“I feel sorry for your team. Orange and purple together is flattering on absolutely no one. Well, maybe on Jake Shears. Definitely not on your teammates.”

“Okay, hold up. First of all, uniforms, not costumes. And second?” Evan slouches into his chair and looks Johnny up and down. “You’re one to talk.”

Johnny tosses his head back haughtily. “I wouldn’t expect a hockey player to appreciate high fashion.”

Evan snorts. “Sure, whatever you say, man.”

“Nice as it has been chatting with you, Evan, I have to go.” Weir slips his purse over his forearm and picks up his tray. “My mistress awaits.”

“Yeah, go,” Evan waves him off. “The Galinazi doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

“You do know she’s Russian and not German, right?”

Evan makes a face at him. Johnny smiles beatifically.

“You always want to get the last word, don’t you?

Johnny smiles even wider. “Only when it comes to you, honey.”

*

“I hear you’re friends with Johnny Weir now,” Chrissie declares when Evan comes down the stairs one Saturday morning in October. She’s sacked out on the coach, pressing away at her GameBoy with occasional glances at the Scooby Doo rerun playing on the TV.

Evan detours into the kitchen, dumps half a box of Wheaties and half a box of Lucky Charms into a punch bowl, grabs a spoon, a bottle of orange juice and a carton of milk. He makes his way back into the den and flops down next to Chrissie. She makes gagging noises at his choice of breakfast.

They sit in relative quiet for a good while – long enough for Evan to finish a third of his bowl and figure out who stole the painting and Scooby’s snack – before Chris decides to be nosy again.

“Since when have you been such BFFs with Johnny Weir?” Her GameBoy makes a series of bleeping noises. That sound is all too familiar to Evan. It means Mario’s just keeled over and died. He’s never been any good at that game. Chris, on the other hand, is obsessed with it. She claims to have reached level seventy-six. Level seventy-six of who knows how many levels, they’re not quite sure. Evan suspects it’s infinite or unwinnable. Chris is determined to prove him wrong.

Evan swallows his mouthful of cerealy goodness. “Since never. I’ve talked to him a couple of times, that’s about it.”

“That’s not what Shawna says.”

“Who’s Shawna?” Evan grabs the remote and switches to Nickelodeon.

Chris whacks him on the arm. “Are you kidding me? She’s only been coming over since we moved here. Tall? Thin? Cornrows down to her ass?”

Evan tries to picture her in his head. Chrissie’s friends are a blur of high-pitched shrieks, overpowering perfume and too much make up in his head. It’s weird that Chrissie, a tomboy in every sense of the word, likes hanging out with a bunch of bimbos.

“Uh, yeah, I sorta remember her,” he lies, shoving another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

“God,” she huffs. “You are such a loser. I don’t know how we’re even related.”

“You could always pretend to be adopted.”

“With this nose?” She points to the appendage in question and grabs his. “Who do you think are we gonna fool?”

He bats her hand away. “Why are you so interested in Johnny anyway? You want his autograph or something?”

There’s complete silence on her end. It’s so out of character that he turns his head to look at her.

“God, Evan,” she sighs. “How are you so completely useless?”

He shrugs. “It’s a gift. Like how you’re so totally annoying.”

She shoves him. Hard. He nearly spills his cereal on the couch. And this discussion ends like all things do between them: with a wrestling match.

*

His monthly duty of washing the plexiglass boards is Evan’s idea of Zen time. Give him one of his dad’s Led Zeppelin CDs in his discman, jujubes in his pocket, a bucket of soapy water, a rag and his squeegee any day over that weird Buddhist chanting music and incense sticks Lim had the team try out once.

Buddhist monks have nothing on him when it comes to Zen. Chrissie calls him a spazz and says it’s not meditation, it’s just him zoning out. He thinks she’s an idiot who’s talking out of her ass. He consoles himself with the thought that if she only tried it, she’d stop having shitty seasons and being so irritable.

He’s only vaguely aware of Johnny, the Galinazi and some bug-eyed, frizzy-haired bag lady on the ice. He’s too busy making sure that he wipes the clockwise the same number of times he’s wiped counterclockwise, all to the beat of The Lemon Song.

He wouldn’t have noticed if an earthquake struck but Johnny’s slumped too close to where he’s squeegeeing that he has to stop and maybe ask him to move if he doesn’t want to get wet.

He pulls off his headphones and opens his mouth to ask Johnny to get out of the way when he notices that Johnny’s busy talking with the bag lady.

“Oh God, she hates it,” Johnny moans, banging his fist on the boards.

“We can change it, it’s not a problem,” the bag lady pats him on the back.

Johnny grunts. It’s a surprising sound to be coming from him. “We’ve got a week until Sectionals. I just, argh! You know? Priscilla never had any – ” He cuts himself off and visibly shakes himself. “Okay. Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s okay,” she says. “I can do it fast. Don’t worry. I’ll just wait for you outside, okay?”

Johnny breathes in deep and nods. The lady leaves through the visitors’ entrance.

“Um...” Evan says intelligently.

“Oh!” Johnny straightens up. “I didn’t see you there.” There’s an awkward moment of silence. “Must be because you’ve decided to stop wearing those horrendous shoes of yours,” he finally quips.

Evan looks down at his ratty Chuck Taylors then back up at Johnny. He does a double take when he realizes that Johnny’s wearing some weird black onesie with glitter designs all over it to make it look like a tuxedo. “Wow, that’s just pot calling the kettle shit right there,” Evan points out.

Johnny cocks his head. “You don’t like it either, huh?”

And while people might accuse Evan of being thick, he isn’t intentionally mean. He’s heard how down Johnny sounded a minute ago, so he tries to not put his foot in his mouth this time. “Well, what do I know about fashion, right?” He tries to project his sincerity.

That seems to cheer Johnny up, or at least make him feel better by giving him something he can mock. Evan might have only spoken to him twice but he knows with an absolute certainty that Johnny loves bitching things out. It’s not that he’s mean, well, Evan doesn’t think so. It’s more like Johnny sincerely likes being overly dramatic and making snappy comebacks.

“Well,” Johnny starts, wrinkling his nose at Evan’s shoes. “That much is obvious. How old are those things, by the way? They look like refugees from World War II.”

“Last time, my shoes were offensively colorful and this time they’re too plain.” Evan holds out his arms. “I can’t win with you, can I?”

Johnny flutters his eyelashes. “I’m notoriously hard to please.”

“You’ve got that right,” Evan comments, tossing his rag into the wash bucket. He pops a few jujubes into his mouth and holds out the box to Johnny. “Want some?”

Johnny’s aghast expression says it all. “Are you kidding me? That’s like offering crack to Whitney! Take it away!” Johnny turns his head to the side and flaps a hand in his general direction.

Evan dumps the rest of the box in his mouth and chews obnoxiously. “Alright, you’re in the clear. They’re all gone.”

Johnny pouts. “When this season is over, I am going to eat an entire baumkuchen. I swear, I don’t care what Galina says, I am going back home to Pennsylvania and I’m going to eat steak and cake for an entire week straight.”

Evan laughs. “Don’t they feed you where you’re staying?”

“I live with Galina,” Johnny says emphatically. “She makes sure I stick to my 1500-calorie diet. Absolutely no cheating.”

Evan boggles. He basically has red meat once a day at the very least, heaping bowls of pasta every other day or so, a box of cereal every morning and he always gets two servings of dessert. His eating habits are average at best compared to the other guys on the team, so he can’t wrap his head around eating what amounts to two party-size bags of Cheetos a day.

“It’s sweet that you think I come by this perfection naturally,” Johnny smirks.

“Seriously, though,” Evan says, all kidding aside. “Aren’t you hungry all the time?”

“Silly bunny. How’s this any different from you stuffing your face until you’re this huge hulking mass of muscle?” Evan’s not convinced and it must show on his face because Johnny elaborates. “I want to be Olympic champion, so I make certain sacrifices. You get that, right?”

“More than you think,” Evan agrees.

“Well, I gotta go take this off and have Stephanie remove all the fabulosity from it. See you around, Evan.”

“Um, good luck!” Evan calls out to his retreating back.

Johnny looks at him from over his shoulder.

Evan shrugs. “You know, on your costume and sectionals and...stuff.”

Johnny laughs. “Thanks.”

*

Evan’s riding high on a great season. In the last two months, he’s been ten for ten on shutouts and both coaches from Boston U and Michigan State made contact – the Boston U coach calling him a couple of weeks ago while the Michigan State coach sat next to his mom during last week’s game. Both had made positive noises about making him their first pick and had unofficially invited him to tour their campuses.

All that’s left is his SAT scores and he’s feeling pretty positive about those too. He wrote them early so they’d be out of the way while the rest of the team’s decided to take the policy of out of sight out of mind. They’re all probably planning on taking them together in the spring. Evan hopes coach talks them out of it for the sake of their chances at the Clark Cup.

Evan’s pulling off his helmet and neck guard in a tiny storage room just off the main locker area. He’s got a weird superstition about putting on and taking off his equipment in front of people. He doesn’t like anyone seeing him with just part of his uniform on, although he’s fine with walking around buck naked in front of his teammates. It might be because he started playing when he was a lot older than most kids and had to struggle into his kit for some time before he got used to it.

He’s a perfectionist. He doesn’t like to look like he’s not in control all the time.

He tosses his helmet and neck guard on top of his gloves on the bench then starts in on his jersey. He’s peeling off his frankly grotty T-shirt and wondering whether he should ask out Imogen Cruz to the Winter Formal when there’s a knock on the door frame.

Johnny waves at him from the threshold.

“Uh, hi,” Evan says uncertainly. He’s sort of wavering between pulling his jersey back on or taking the rest of his shit off before he settles on not doing anything. Johnny’s clearly amused at his discomfort.

“Can I come in?” he says sweetly.

Evan looks around for lack of anything better to do. “I don’t know why you’d want to,” he says, finally deciding to sit down and start on his skates even though it’s all out of sequence for him. “But sure, come on in.”

“Clearly, you don’t know me very well,” Johnny drawls, settling himself next to Evan.

Evan freezes.

“Relax, cowboy,” Johnny snorts. “I’ll try not to give in to the urge to jump you. Somehow.”

Evan pulls off his skates slowly to avoid looking at Johnny. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Holy Christina Aguilera, help me.” Evan meets his eyes at that. “I’m gay, not desperate. Get over yourself.”

“Sorry,” Evan mumbles.

“Moving on,” Johnny chirps. “Congratulations on your winning streak. Also, on your shut offs. I hear that’s supposed to be a good thing.”

“Shut outs,” Evan corrects.

“Whatever,” Johnny shrugs, waving his hand in the air. “I’ve gotten you something to mark this momentous occasion.”

Evan blinks. “Um, you didn’t have to?”

Johnny waves him off, digging around in his purse. “Of course, I may be lying. I could have just gotten this because it reminded me of you and now I’m trying to pass it off as something thoughtful instead of vaguely insulting.”

“Okay...” Now Evan’s _really_ curious.

“Ta da!” Johnny thrusts something small and fluffy at his face. Evan is momentarily cross-eyed. He grabs Johnny’s wrist and pushes it a few inches away. The thing resolves itself into a tiny stuffed coyote.

“I think I should be insulted,” Evan finally says.

“What can I say? It’s the nose.” Johnny taps him on said nose with the stuffed coyote. “Can you blame me? It’s not like you haven’t heard it all before.”

Evan makes a face. “That doesn’t mean I like hearing it over and over again.”

“I call him Sk’elep. Evan, for short,” Johnny winks. “He’s yours now, so you can name him whatever you want.”

“Congratulations to you too,” Evan says to change the topic. He feels not exactly uncomfortable, more like he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing.

Johnny frowns. “How did you know - ?”

Evan shrugs. “I didn’t. Now I do.” He smiles cockily.

“And what would you have done if I hadn’t won?” Johnny challenges. “Risk contracting serious bad karma by insulting me?”

“Everyone’s always saying how awesome you are and, well, when you’re practicing, it looks like it’s easy as all get out to you. I just kinda assumed, you know, deductive reasoning?”

Johnny smiles, pleased. “How very astute, Sherlock. And thank you, that was quite complimentary of you.”

Evan grins.

“Hey, Evan, you done yet?” Bauer walks in the room, dripping water and clutching at the towel wrapped around his waist. He barely spares Johnny a glance before continuing. “Can we stop by Giordano’s on the way home? I’m starving for some sausage stuffed pizza.”

“Sure. Give me five minutes.”

“Get your ass into gear, man, I'm dying here.” Bauer walks away, scratching his ass.

“Charming,” Johnny comments once Bauer’s out of hearing.

Evan’s can’t figure out if his tone is insulting or not. “He’s a good guy,” he defends.

Johnny makes a complicated gesture. “I didn’t say otherwise. I’m leaving Evan in your capable hands. Don’t forget to hug him every night or else he’ll feel lonely and bite your schnauz off.”

He saunters off and Evan’s left with the tiny stuffed coyote staring up at him.

*  
Evan’s not a natural team player. Everyone who’s met him, who’s trained and played with him knows this. All of his coaches, the ones who’ve praised him for his intuitiveness, his intelligence on the ice, his ability to keep a cool head when the pressure’s on, they’ve all made a few comments about this over the years. He’s had to learn to play nice with his teammates.

Evan’s not a gloryhound. That’s not what this is about.

Evan’s a control freak.

He doesn’t completely trust any one of the guys not to mess up when it comes down to the line. It’s why he instantly gravitated towards the goalkeeper position when he was learning the game. A goalie can basically make or break a game and Evan, more often than not, is the contributing factor to his team’s victory.

So, when he finds himself up against a team with a goalie who’s just as good as he is but with better, more aggressive forwards, well, one lucky shot is all it takes.

The locker room’s that strange and pathetic quiet it gets that is an indelible sign of the home team losing. He’s peripherally aware of the rest of his team leaving, their heavy footsteps louder than their cursing.

Evan’s in the small utility closet, still in uniform save for his gloves and helmet. He’s hunched over, staring at the floor between his knees, towel slung over his head.

It’s dark, the only light in the room coming from the small window that frames the half moon outside perfectly.

The team’s customarily gone to Kowalski’s, where his older brothers ply them with beer and hard liquor. They know not to bother Evan into going with them.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there (Ron, the rink operations manager is pretty good with giving Evan a lot of elbow room) when he hears the soft, “Hey.”

He doesn’t bother looking up. It’s Johnny.

He hears the rustling of clothes and then Johnny’s sitting next to him. He thinks Johnny, a competitive athlete himself, all joking about twirl girls aside, should know better than to stick his nose where it isn’t wanted.

They sit in silence for at least ten minutes.

“I lost,” Evan grunts, for lack of anything better to say.

There’s some shifting around on Johnny’s end and then he’s shoving a sports drink in front of Evan’s nose. “I hardly think it was all your fault. From where I was standing, it was more than just you out there on the ice.”

Evan snorts but accepts the peace offering. “Obviously, you don’t know much about hockey.”

There’s a loaded silence and for a moment, Evan thinks Johnny might just leave. He doesn’t.

“Clearly, I don’t.” There’s another heavy pause before Johnny continues, his tone making it clear that he’s practically forcing the words out, “But I do know how it feels to lose.”

“Whatever,” Evan dismisses. He doesn’t want to hear it. Johnny can pretend to commiserate and sprout all the stupid, clichéd platitudes he wants; it won’t make Evan feel better.

“Evan, look at me.”

It takes him a lifetime, but he manages to drag his eyes up to stare in the general direction of Johnny’s face.

“Hey,” Johnny says, gently. “Over here.”

Evan reluctantly meets his eyes.

“I don’t know what it is you’ve heard or where you heard it from that makes you think I’m this golden prodigy or something – ”

“Junior world champ,” Evan cuts him off, stone-faced.

Johnny looks down and away. He fiddles with his shirt. He closes his eyes, breathes in deep and looks Evan right in the eye. “That was two years ago, Evan.”

“So?”

“Why do you think am I here with Galina? I used to train in Delaware.”

Evan shrugs.

“I went to Nationals, last year,” he starts, voice wooden and stilted. “I went as a senior. My second time competing as one.” He laughs once, soft and amused. “I was so excited, I don’t know if you can imagine it.”

“Like a kid on Christmas morning?”

Johnny smiles; it’s like quicksilver, there and gone again. “Yeah, like a hundred Christmases all rolled into one.” He falls silent then seems to remember himself. “They called me a prodigy, you know? A natural. I’d never been on ice skates until I was twelve but I was good. I was really good. And I wanted to show them that I could be great.”

“What happened?” Evan’s curious now. While he hasn’t exactly forgotten how he messed up, Johnny’s plan worked in that he’s sufficiently distracted from it. Evan’s hit with the realization that he doesn’t really know Johnny all that well. He’d just assumed since Johnny was so out there that he could take everything at face value and think that that was all there was to him.

“I skated a good, clean short program; I was guaranteed silver. Everyone kept saying I could win gold. Then I got to the long program and I literally hit the wall. That’s what they call it, like it’s so clever.”

“You fell into the boards?”

“My blade got stuck. I restarted but I fell, injured myself. I had to withdraw. And the people who said I could’ve won? They said I was washed up after that. Throw in the towel, stick a fork in me, however you want to say it. I was done. On live national television, no less.” Johnny smiles self-deprecatingly. “I was depressed for weeks.”

“But you’re here. And you’re still competing, right?”

“I want to show them that you just don’t write Johnny Weir off. I had to skate my way into Nationals this year. And let me tell you, you’ve never fallen so low until you have to start from the very bottom and claw your way back to the top.” Johnny smooths down his scarf and tosses one end over his shoulder. “I’m here and I’m going to do it. I’m going to prove those bitches wrong _and_ win gold while doing it.”

Evan finally lets out the laugh he’s been holding in.

Johnny grins. “So, I take it my little pep talk was effective? Are you going to take my inspirational story and learn from it? Do you think maybe you want to get out of your stinky costume and shower now?”

“Yeah, I think I’m inspired enough to go take a shower.”

“Then my work here is done.”

“Hey,” Evan says, laying a hand on his forearm. “Thanks. Really.”

Johnny studies him for a moment then shrugs carelessly.

Evan drops his hand. “So, do you, uh, I mean, after I’m done with that shower. Do you want to maybe go get dinner? My treat.”

“Oh, I’m easy,” Johnny winks, leaning back against the wall to prove his point. “It’s Galina you have to convince.”

Evan balks.

“Oh God,” Johnny lifts a hand to cover his mouth, breaking out in fits of laughter. “I’m kidding. You should see your face.”

“Dude,” Evan frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not funny.”

“No, it is. It really is.”

*

Evan’s sacked out on the floor of his rec room, playing Grand Theft Auto with Johnson. It’s one of the rare Saturdays where he doesn’t have to get to work and there’s no game scheduled for the team. They take advantage of this by hanging out at Evan’s, bringing chips, pizza and soda. Bauer was the first to arrive at eight; Evan was still asleep so he hung out with Chrissie and Evan’s mom for an entire hour. Bauer’s weird like that.

Most of the guys are crowded around the pool table watching Lim demonstrate the laws of physics. (Lim’s dad works for NASA and his mom’s a neurosurgeon; the guy likes showing off how smart he is in extremely retarded ways.) A few of the guys are playing poker, staking peanut butter M&Ms and pork rinds. The rest are egging Evan and Johnson on.

He’s kicking Johnson’s ass and racking up points when there’s an ear-splitting shriek from the other side of the house.

There’s a moment where they all just drop what they’re doing and stare at each other. Evan kicks himself into gear and runs to the den, calling out Chrissie’s name.

He sees her jumping on the couch, clutching the remote, alternating between fanning herself and covering her mouth with her hands.

“What the – Chrissie, did you see a rat or something?”

“Oh my God, Evan!” She leaps off the couch and tackles him into a hug. “Oh my God! So, so awesome! Oh my God! Oh my God!”

He gets a hold of her shoulders and shakes her. “What is it?”

She inhales loudly. “He won! He won!” She hugs him again. It’s weird.

He shrugs her off then frowns at her in confusion. She sighs, rolling her eyes. She points to the TV.

And there’s Johnny, standing on a podium in the middle of an ice rink, waving at the crowd, gold medal hanging from his neck. Evan didn’t realize he’d been worried for Johnny until this very moment when his knees almost give out in relief. He smiles at Chrissie. She grins stupidly back.

At this point, most of the guys have crowded into the den. Bauer walks up to Chrissie and says very diplomatically, “Christ, lady, are you on the rag?”

“Shut up, fatty,” she snipes back.

Bauer’s staring at the TV. “All that noise for some twirl contest?” He turns back to her. “Jesus, you’re a screaming fan girl!”

She makes a face. “Bite me.” She tosses a throw pillow at his head.

The guys, because they’ve got attention spans of gnats, are flipping through the channels, hoping to find some soft-core porn on Cinemax.

Bauer’s tapping his finger on his chin, putting on a ‘thinking’ face. “Oh, no, wait! I got it! You watch this shit because deep down you’ve always been frustrated about not being any good at it. Since you can’t do it, you settle with being a crazy fan girl.” Bauer smirks. “How’s that?”

If Bauer knew Chrissie better, he would’ve known not to go there. Evan sees her face though, and he knows what’s coming.

She breaks his nose.

Bauer’s on the floor, yelling up a storm while Chrissie pushes past them and storms up to her room. Evan hears her door slam and, after a second, Megadeath follows. He’s too busy making sure Bauer’s okay to go and comfort her. Kowalski’s immediately at his side. He’s broken his nose three times and is an expert at this. Evan gets up to grab some ice while Kowalski barks at Bauer to keep his head elevated.

“Your sister’s hard core, man,” Johnson says, very much in awe. A few of the guys nod in agreement. Evan shrugs. Bauer sort of deserved it; it was a dick thing to say.

He tosses the ice pack on Bauer’s chest. “You better go apologize.”

Bauer, pinching the bridge of his nose, opens one eye to glare at him. Chrissie sure got him good. There’s a lot of bruising around his eyes. He picks up the ice pack and winces when he puts it over his nose. “Yeah, man, whatever.”

He does get up, though, and trudge up the stairs. He’s known Chrissie almost all her life, he gets it.

*

Evan’s right across the stands, busy rigging a tarp to the ceiling of the rink. There’s supposed to be a pulley system that’s supposed to make this thing easy to do so he doesn’t know why he’s been here for the better part of thirty minutes. It’s almost six in the morning but since it’s Sunday, the rink’s empty.

He’s sleepy and frustrated so when he notices movement out of the corner of his eye, he jumps at the distraction. Johnny’s on the other side of the rink, slipping off his skate guards.

“Hey,” Evan calls out. Johnny looks around and, when he spots Evan, smiles.

“Hi,” he waves.

“Hey, aren’t you Johnny Weir, U.S. National Champion?”

“I don’t know. Am I?” he yells back, stepping onto the ice.

“You sure do look a lot like the kid on this poster, if you aren’t,” Evan replies, holding one end of said poster up.

Johnny skates up to his end and leans both arms on the boards. “Well, that sure is one handsome young man.”

They stare at each other, holding back their smiles, then crack up at the same time. Evan looks up at the tarp, figures that it’s as good as it’s gonna get without professional interference and climbs down the step ladder.

Johnny’s waiting for him at the bottom.

“So, congratulations are obviously in order,” he starts. Johnny beams at him. He idly realizes that with his skates on, Johnny’s only a couple or so inches shorter than him.

“You heard right. Well?” Johnny raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. “Don’t waste my time. If you want to kiss my feet, now’s the time to do it.”

“How about not?”

“Hrm,” Johnny crosses his arms and taps one finger on his cheek. “I won’t take anything less than complete adoration. Prostrate yourself at my feet or be gone from my sight, commoner.”

Evan’s still stuck on how Johnny isn’t all that short when he’s in skates and Evan’s in sneakers. He can still sort of see over the top of his head but it’s the perfect height for Evan to...kiss him. And shit, did he just do that? What the fuck?

He pulls away, wide-eyed. He can see his dumbfounded face reflected in Johnny’s eyes, they’re that close. Johnny’s staring at him too, blinking fast.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Evan’s thinks he’s hyperventilating. Damn it! What the fuck was he thinking? Fuck, fuck fuck.

They haven’t moved in who knows how long, they’re just staring at each other. Evan wants to run away but his feet won’t cooperate. He thinks he’s going into shock.

Finally, it’s Galina who jolts them into action when she comes in yelling for Johnny. Evan quickly turns away and busies himself with the ladder. He hears Johnny softly call back and sigh. Then he’s back on the ice and Evan does his best not to look back.

He avoids Johnny for three weeks.

*

Just because he’s having a gay crisis doesn’t mean he’s playing poorly. The complete opposite happens. He plays like the Stanley Cup’s on the line and he’s been diagnosed with cancer and might die tomorrow and this is his last chance to be inducted into the Hall of Fame. He makes sure he’s so completely exhausted that it’s all he can do to stuff his face and faceplant on his bed when he gets home at night.

The team wins two more games and Evan brings his mom with him to check out Boston U in the interval.

He does his best not to think about Johnny.

Evan thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of keeping it together. Sure, now he hangs around in the utility closet a lot of the time but it’s not so much that he’s hiding as performing a tactical retreat.

He’s doing a pretty good job of not thinking about things, if he does say so himself. So, when Chrissie bursts into the closet and finds him writing his English paper while wedged between a stack of broken hockey sticks and a vacuum cleaner, she cries up to what he can only presume as heaven. “Seriously Evan? Are you not getting the irony of this?”

Evan chooses to ignore her.

What he can’t ignore is Bauer’s big fat head poking into the room. “Dude, even _I_ get how stupid this is.”

Evan tosses a ball of paper at his head. “What the fuck are you doing here.”

“We’re staging an intervention,” Lim calls from behind Bauer.

“Jesus Christ.” Evan gets up and forces Chrissie out the door.

“Bro, we’re worried about you,” Bauer says sincerely.

“Oprah says that young gay teens need a lot of emotional support and affirmation because they’re afraid of being alienated by their peers,” Johnson quotes. Behind him, Burmeister, their center who only moved from Germany last year, nods vigorously. Evan wants to smack them. He’s not even sure Burmeister can string two English sentences together.

“I’m not gay!” he hisses.

“Who are you trying to fool, Evan?” Chrissie snipes, clinging to the doorframe as does his best to push her out the door.

“It’s normal to feel turmoil regarding your sexual identity,” Lim chimes in. “Most teens feel that their bodies are betraying them but these are just natural hormonal manifestations. Maybe you’re gay, maybe you’re bisexual; it doesn’t matter. Experimentation is a beautiful and natural expression of self-identity.”

Everyone blinks.

“You sure _you’re_ not gay, man?” Johnson slaps Lim on the arm.

“Nah,” Lim shrugs it off. “It’s like a rite of passage for my mom to give her kids that talk when they turn sixteen.”

Evan sighs. “Would you knuckleheads just get out?”

“Evan,” Chrissie says seriously. “Look, we’re here for you, okay? These guys? They don’t care one way or another as long as you’re a good captain.”

Bauer, Lim, Johnson and Burmeister nod on cue.

“Fuck my life,” is all Evan can say.

“Seriously, dude, you think you were being all subtle and smooth about that thing you’ve got going with that twirl guy?” Bauer snorts. “Ha!”

“Since when are you a friend of the gays, huh?” Evan sneers.

“Since you decided to be one,” Bauer challenges, stepping in close and staring Evan down.

“So it’s gonna be like that?” Evan says aggressively.

“Yeah, that’s how it’s gonna be,” Bauer barks. “You ever see me pick on a fag? You think I’m gonna start now?”

Evan deflates. “Yeah, well, I don’t know why you’re telling me this.”

“Jesus,” Chrissie mutters under her breath. “Look, Ev, whatever you decide? We’ve got your back, okay? That’s all we’re trying to say. You realize you’re gay? We’re okay with that. You realize you’re not? We’re okay with that too. Just stop with the crazy. It’s driving us nuts.”

Evan wants to protest but he can’t really think of anything to say. He’s not sure if he’s grateful for the support or vaguely insulted. He keeps his mouth shut and accepts the back slaps and the hug from Chrissie. When they’re all gone, he shuts the door behind him.

*

Evan’s driven. He’s extremely focused. He is like the complete opposite of those kids with ADHD, so much so that all his teachers complain that he’s circled around to having such a short attention span when it comes to the things that don’t interest him.

When he wants something, he pursues it with a single-minded determination that’s almost unhealthy. It’s what his coaches love about him as a captain and what his teammates appreciate in him as a leader.

Evan knows that a good player getting benched, a ref making a bad call and the opposing team scoring one too many goals aren’t going to keep your team from winning the game. Being the best player in the world isn’t going to help you if you can’t keep it together.

Shit happens, that’s a fundamental rule in hockey and in life.

So, after he has his gay freakout – and he’s allowed to have a few days (okay, fine, so it was more three weeks, who’s counting?) because his world just got shifted on its axis and he’s got no one he can actually ask about dealing with finding himself suddenly attracted to a dude, granted, a really pretty dude who smells better than a girl, but still, a _dude_ and he doesn’t know what to tell his parents and will they kick him out, he hopes not and wait, he still thinks Camille’s hot, so does this mean he’s only half-gay? – okay, so maybe he’s still freaking out here.

There’s no rulebook for what he’s going through, not that he’s checked the library or anything, so he’s just going to have to wing it.

He hopes for the best.

*

Now that he’s not actively hiding from Johnny, he realizes just how hard it is to get him alone. He thinks his best shot would be on Tuesday or Thursday nights after Johnny’s practice. He’s careful to make sure the Galina’s left the skating area but Johnny’s always with Mr. Petrenko or with Mr. Petrenko’s wife. He tries catching him before hockey practice but Johnny doesn’t seem to see him and is always busy discussing something with the Galina.

Evan’s going to have to get crafty with this.

He cuts study period again and drives like a crazy person to the Ice Locker. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say, he knows he should have something planned. He’s never _not_ had a plan in his entire life. He tries to mentally compose a speech and almost runs a red doing it.

He takes this as a **sign**.

He gets to the rink in record time and convinces Camille that it is imperative for him to do inventory at the snack bar. He’s hunched behind the counter with a record book and a pen, counting the number of purple Skittles packets when he hears Camille talking to Sonja. He jerks, hard, smacking Camille in the shin. She kicks him in the ribs.

Johnny walks up to the counter and Evan forgets to groan in pain.

He jumps up, startling everyone. “Hi,” he says, heart beating way too fast for a person who’s been an athlete since age eight. “Can I talk to you?”

Johnny stares at him expressionlessly.

“Please,” Evan says seriously. He jumps over the counter, ignoring Camille’s protests. “I really need to talk to you.”

Johnny raises an eyebrow.

“Please,” Evan repeats, letting a hint of desperation show.

“Fine,” Johnny concedes. “What do you want to say?”

Evan’s so relieved he could cry. “Not here,” he says, grabbing Johnny’s wrist and glancing surreptitiously at what he can see of the ice. Johnny looks like he might take back his permission, so Evan quickly adds, “I don’t want the Galinazi to interrupt.”

Johnny rolls his eyes but lets Evan drag him into the utility closet.

Johnny’s looking around the closet distastefully while Evan has a minor breakdown. He’s trying to figure out how to start and decides to just go for it when Johnny starts tapping his foot.

“So, about what happened that time...”

Johnny snorts and tries to push past Evan to get to the door.

“Wait!” Evan yelps, blocking his way. “You said you’d hear me out!”

“I thought you’d have something constructive to say,” Johnny sneers. “I really don’t need to hear another rehash of closeted jock drama, okay? I’ve got more self-respect than that.”

“Look, that’s not -!” Evan growls in frustration. “That’s not what I was going to say, okay?”

“Really? Because from where I’m standing it sure looks like it. You want me to pretend like it never happened? Fine, I’ll do it. Now stop wasting my time.” Johnny tries his damnedest to push Evan out of the way but Evan’s not going to budge.

“God, why do you have to make things so hard?” Evan groans. “I don’t even know why I like you!”

That makes Johnny stop. “You like me?” he asks incredulously.

“Of course I like you!” Evan runs both hands through his hair. “Why else would I have kissed you?”

“I was a convenient outlet for your repressed homosexual urges?”

Evan looks at him. “Really? That’s what you think?” Johnny doesn’t reply, which is answer enough. “I didn’t even know I liked guys when I kissed you, okay?”

“Hence, the term repressed,” Johnny snipes though his heart clearly isn’t in it because he backs up to lean against the wall across from Evan.

“I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you, that’s what I wanted to say. That was a dick move and I’m really sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” Johnny replies way too fast. “Now can we get out of here?”

“Um, I sort of wanted to, I mean,” Evan breathes in deep and moves forward. “Do you want to go out with me sometime? I mean, I get if you’re not into me and I don’t mean to like imply that you’re easy or whatever by assuming that you’d wanna go out with me just because you’re gay and I just really, really like you and –”

Johnny slaps a hand over his mouth.

“This is the part where you shut up and I kiss you,” Johnny smiles. “Okay?”

Evan nods and Johnny removes his hand. Johnny brings both hands up to frame Evan’s face and tilt his head down. He leans up slightly and plants a soft, close-mouthed kiss on Evan’s lips.

He pulls back a bit and Evan blinks at him.

“This is the part where I ask you about what we’ll do since I’m going home in the spring and you’ll be leaving for school in the fall and you tell me that we’ll deal with those things when we get to them. Then you’re supposed to sweep me off my feet and kiss me madly and passionately until we forget about all those things,” Johnny breathes against his mouth. “Do you think you can do that?” Evan nods. “Evan, I don’t think this will work out. I’m going to be gone in the spring and you’ll be leaving in the fall. I really like you but I don’t know.”

Evan takes his cue. He palms Johnny’s hips and pulls him closer. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers, then proceeds to kiss him senseless.

*


End file.
